


Spider-Man: Home Page

by bea_flowers



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Daily Bugle, F/M, Fluff, Photographer Peter Parker, Some angst, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: Writing for the Daily Bugle online blog isn't all it's cracked up to be. After a particularly frustrating argument with your editor in chief, over your new pitch, the Bugle's star photographer, Peter Parker, enters the picture and may have the solution you're looking for.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Reader, Peter Parker/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Spider-Man: Home Page

“Mr. Jameson, please, I really think I’m onto something here.”

“No, Y/N,” J. Jonah Jameson screamed. “How many times do I have to tell you to write the stories you’re assigned?”

“But, Mr. Jameson—”

“That is enough!” He sighed and continued at a more steady tone, “Do you like working here?”

“Yes, of course, I do—”

“Then, do your damn job and it’ll stay that way!” Jameson slammed the door shut in your face, then yelled through the glass walls of his office, “I expect that story by the end of the day.”

You slunk back to your seat and slumped into your chair. You stared at the text cursor on your blank Word document, the blinking light taunting you. You huffed and cursed under your breath.

You heard a man’s soft voice behind you. “Are you okay?”

You turned to face him. He had brown wavy hair, warm chestnut eyes, and a camera slung around his neck.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you hissed, still seething with rage. You exhaled heavily and flashed the man an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just… Mr. Jameson can be so…”

“Yeah, I get it,” he smiled innocently. He outstretched his hand. “I’m Peter, by the way, Peter Parker.”

“I’m Y/F/N Y/L/N.” You shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker.”

“Mr. Parker, huh?” he chuckled. “Are you always this formal?”

“It’s called professionalism, Mr. Parker,” you teased.

He laughed again and leaned against the half-wall of your cubicle, perching his elbow on the top, beside your row of trinkets and tchotchkes. “What story were you fighting with Jameson about?” Peter asked, quickly adding, “If you’re allowed to tell me, that is.”

“Well, I’m _supposed_ to be writing about this stupid children’s book fair in Queens this weekend. But, as you can see,” you gestured to the blank document, “I’m having some trouble putting words to paper.”

Peter bent down closer to you. “I was talking about the story you were trying to convince Jameson to let you write.”

“Oh,” you grinned, perking up at the opportunity to talk about your passion project, “it’s a full feature on the history of Spider-Man and the effect he’s had on the city. The piece delves into his origins as the YouTube sensation, then his progression into becoming a serious superhero. It goes in-depth into how his existence at all increased the number of supervillains that started attacking the city—but, then again, did he bring the villains out of the woodwork, or were they always there and we didn’t know it? And...” You noticed Peter’s crestfallen, disinterested face. “I am totally boring you. I’m sorry, I tend to ramble when I get excited about something.”

Peter’s face brightened again. “No, no, it’s not that. It sounds like a great story.”

You pursed your lips and narrowed your eyes skeptically. “You’re saying that because you feel bad.”

“No, I’m not,” he insisted. “I think it could be really great.”

You swiveled around in your chair so that your body was angled toward Peter’s and swung your right knee over your left. You crossed your arms and leaned back. “And who are you exactly, Mr. Parker?”

“I’m a photographer,” Peter answered. “I take photos, sell them to Jameson, sometimes he publishes them.”

Your eyes lit up with recognition. “Wait, you’re the guy who gets all the pictures of Spider-Man, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am,” Peter mumbled, half laughing.

You scooted your chair closer to him. “How do you get those photos? No one else can seem to get a clear shot of him, yet you manage to get some of the most incredible shots I’ve ever seen.” You added at a whisper, “You must have a secret.”

“No secrets,” said Peter, shaking his head violently, overcompensating. “I’m just a regular guy who takes pictures.”

“Sure, Mr. Parker,” you snickered suspiciously. You rolled back to face your computer screen. “I should write this story before Mr. Jameson decides to fire me on the spot.”

Peter backed away from your cubicle wall. “I’ll let you get to it. I look forward to reading it.”

“No, you don’t,” you laughed.

“Yes, I do.” That innocent smile creeped across his face once more. “Almost as much as I look forward to reading your Spider-Man piece.”

You shook your head. “Goodbye, Mr. Parker.”

“Goodbye, Miss Y/L/N.”

You somehow managed to finish the story by five o’clock and had it on Jameson’s desk before you left for the day. As you walked toward the stairwell, you saw a familiar figure get out of an elevator that had just opened its doors. You approached him.

“Why, Mr. Parker, fancy seeing you here,” you said. “More pictures of Spider-Man, I presume?”

He blushed. “Uh, no, actually, I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

You eyed him warily.

“I think I can help you with your article,” he added.

“I already gave it to Mr. Jameson.”

“No, not that one.”

You cocked your brow, curiosity getting the better of you.

Peter pulled you aside and whispered, “Okay, you’re right. The reason I get those photos of Spider-Man is because… Well, I work with him. I told him about your story and he wants to help.”

Your heart was racing. “Mr. Parker, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Peter grinned. The look on his face would have been mischievous on anyone else, but on him, it was more like childlike excitement. “Spider-Man wants to do an exclusive interview with you.”

Your stomach leaped into your throat. Spider-Man— _the_ Spider-Man—wanted to do something he had never done before: an in-person, face-to-face interview. With you. An opportunity like this could make your career. Jameson would have to publish your piece after this.

“Mr. Parker, if this is some kind of sick joke…”

“It’s not,” he promised.

You stared into his eyes—those warm, brown eyes—and believed he was telling the truth. The corner of your mouth turned up into a lopsided grin, somewhere between cocky and grateful, maybe a bit of both. You released a breathy chuckle and shook your head. “Peter Parker, you might just be my favorite person on the planet.”

Peter beamed. “You called me by my first name.”

“After making me the happiest person in the world, I think we can be on a first-name basis. Now, how do we do this?”

Peter agreed to meet with you after work the following evening to help you prepare for the interview and get a bit of background intel on the hero before you met him later that week.

You decided not to tell Jameson about the interview and instead did your assigned article—listicle, more accurately—without a fight. You had “Dogs That Look Like the Avengers” submitted before lunch that afternoon.

Not only were you excited about the story of a lifetime, but you also thought that staying on Jameson’s good side, being a bit more obedient than usual, and keeping your head down may make him more receptive to your pitch later. You knew there was a soft side of Jameson that appreciated, maybe even liked, your scrappy tenacity, but you couldn’t risk it. Not for this story.

You invited Peter over to your studio apartment in Queens that evening. You didn’t want to meet in a public space and risk the chance someone could overhear your conversation. Was it a bit paranoid? Sure, but you knew every precaution you could take would be worth it.

Your doorbell chimed at six-thirty that evening.

You opened your door to see Peter standing there with a pile of manila folders in his arms and a bulging backpack straining his broad shoulders. You ushered him in and took the files from his arms in an attempt to relieve some of the weight.

“This is everything I have on Spider-Man,” Peter panted, tossing his backpack on the ground.

“You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Sure, I did.” Peter collapsed into one of your kitchen chairs. “I want to make sure you write this article well, too.”

You slid into the chair opposite his. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

Peter shrugged. “I guess you could say I see a lot of myself in him.”

Peter knew a lot about Spider-Man—a _lot_ , probably more than anyone else on the planet. He had more on him than you ever knew existed, from his beginnings on YouTube to his work in the Avengers. Peter knew it all.

You barely made it halfway through Peter’s files when you checked the time. “Dammit, it’s past midnight,” you swore.

Peter grinned. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m having a nice time,” Peter mumbled, boyish grin widening across his face. The silence fell heavy around the two of you. You knew Peter could feel it, too.

You cleared your throat, effectively cutting the tension. “We should probably call it a night. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Peter agreed. “Should I come over again tomorrow night so we can finish going through these?” He gestured to the files.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

You helped Peter pack up his things and showed him out, ending the night with a handshake goodbye, the kind that could have been a hug if you hadn’t stuck your hand out soon enough.

Peter came over the next night, just as he promised. The evening went on the same as the one before. Your mind wandered as Peter spoke. His soothing voice, as excitable as it was, lulled you into a meditative state.

“And, so that’s when Iron Man—”

“Hey, Peter?” you interrupted.

Peter snapped his head up and looked at you. “Yeah?”

“Why is he doing this?”

Peter furrowed his brow, a quizzical frown crossing his lips.

“He’s never done anything like this before,” you explained. “So, why now?”

After a while, Peter answered. “I think he trusts you’ll tell the truth.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Why? He doesn’t even know me.”

Peter locked his eyes with yours. “Because I trust you.”

You worked through Peter’s research more slowly than the previous night. You told yourself it was because you wanted to make sure you had your facts as straight as possible, but in reality, you knew it was because you didn’t want him to leave.

You closed the last remaining file and looked up at Peter. You stared at each other for a few seconds, neither of you sure what to do next.

Peter broke the silence. “I think you’re ready.”

“More than ready.” You felt your lips turn up, matching Peter’s satisfied smile. “Thank you again.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“Yes, I do,” you insisted. “You have no idea how big this is, everything you’re doing for me.” Peter waved his hand dismissively, but his expression morphed into something more serious when you whispered, “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed nervously. “I just want to help you get the story right,” he said.

You knew he was lying, so you said, “No, it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?” His voice wavered. You could feel the weight of his anxiety as the words passed his lips.

“I don’t know if it’s because of your shockingly close and somewhat creepy relationship with Spider-Man, or if it’s because of me, or if there’s something else about this story that’s affecting you this much, but I know there’s something you’re not telling me. I don’t know why you won’t say it and I’m not going to try to pry it out of you, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t flat-out lie to me about it anymore.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re right, there is more, but I can’t tell you what it is.”

“See? Was that so hard?”

“For a reporter, you’re not a very good interrogator.”

“I’ve never been good at interrogating people I like,” you admitted.

Peter leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers together behind his head, cradling the back of his skull. He grinned smugly. “So, you like me then?”

You pursed your lips. “Well, I don’t actively dislike you.”

“No, you like me,” he taunted.

You scoffed. “Okay, okay, don’t let it get to your head, Parker. Half the staff at the Bugle already worships you. I don’t want you thinking I do too.”

“We’re talking worship now? I like the sound of that.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you groaned, “forget I said anything.”

“Too late,” Peter chirped. “I’m going to sear this memory to my brain forever.”

Peter had set up everything—the meeting, the location, getting the preliminary questions to the man behind the mask, even recruiting his friend Ned to record video of the whole thing. _You’ll probably want to have evidence, just in case_ , Peter had suggested. And after all this, he still didn’t want to come to the interview. When you asked him why, he said Spider-Man asked him not to come. You didn’t entirely believe Peter, but you were so grateful that you didn’t want to upset him.

Well, your gratefulness was just part of the reason. You had grown to like the guy. He was funny, a good time to be around. You trusted him and he trusted you.

The night before the interview you treated Peter to a thank-you dinner. “It’s the least I can do,” you had insisted.

Peter walked through the door a minute after the waiter brought two glasses of water to the table. “Sorry I’m late,” Peter apologized as he sat down across from you.

“You’re not late.”

Peter glanced at his watch—a worn leather band, tarnished gold face, well-used and well-loved, old but not vintage, likely a family heirloom. “I must have set my watch early.” Peter flashed you a tight-lipped grin.

“It’s a nice watch,” you commented.

“Thanks. It was my uncle’s,” said Peter. “My aunt bought it for him as an anniversary gift.” Peter slipped the watch off his wrist and showed you the engraving on the back.

_Forever, baby. – May_

“That’s so sweet,” you smiled. “How long have they been married?”

Peter shifted nervously in his seat and cleared his throat. “Uh, he died a few years back, when I was in high school, almost a decade ago. But my aunt gave me his watch. She said he would’ve wanted me to have it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Peter, I’m so sorry.” You clasped your fingers around his hand and rubbed your thumb against the top of his comfortingly.

Peter stared at your hand on his and smiled. “I only wish there was more I could’ve done to help him.”

“I know,” you breathed, your thumb still moving back and forth over the rough skin of his hand. Peter’s eyes met yours and you realized how intimate the small gesture was. You yanked back your hand and used it to lift your glass to your lips. You took a long swig of water as a heavy tension settled over the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, “that was so weird. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, no,” Peter protested, “it was nice.”

You stared down at your shaking hands. “It was entirely unprofessional,” you stated.

Peter laughed. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think any of this is very professional.”

You knew he was right. You knew what the dinner really was.

And it wasn’t a thank-you dinner.

“I guess I’m not as ethical a journalist as I thought I was,” you whispered.

“Yes, you are,” he said. “But you’re also on a date with Peter Parker, who happens to freelance for your boss. Two separate things, see?”

“A date, huh?” you snickered. You raised your gaze to meet his.

He met your stare and grinned. “Don’t you want it to be?”

Peter walked you home when you left the Thai restaurant. He complained the whole single-block jaunt about how you wouldn’t let him pay.

“Tell you what,” you said, spinning to face him as you reached the door of your apartment, “you can pay next time.”

Peter beamed. “So, there’s going to be a next time?”

“Depends,” you shrugged. “It’s your turn to ask.”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Peter blurted eagerly.

A single cackle left your lips. “After the interview, you mean?”

“Yes.”

You winced mockingly, “I’m busy.”

Peter’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a date with this freelance photographer. You might know him. Peter Parker?”

Peter chuckled, “That was so cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You and Peter stood there in the autumn chill. You were both breathing heavily, panting, your hearts racing. You so badly wanted to invite him up for a nightcap, but you still had interview prep to do and you knew if you brought him up, you wouldn’t want him to leave.

You couldn’t remember having as restless a sleep as you did the night before the interview. It wasn’t even the tossing-and-turning kind of restlessness. You had been awake, staring at your ceiling, thinking about everything that could go wrong and everything that could go right.

Peter introduced you to Ned that evening before the interview and helped you set up all the equipment on the roof where you had agreed to meet Spider-Man—his idea. Peter said goodbye about twenty minutes before the interview was supposed to begin. You asked him again if he was sure he didn’t want to stay, but he reminded you that Spider-Man had asked him not to. You appreciated Peter’s loyalty. You could only imagine how badly Peter must have wanted to be there, to be part of such a historic moment involving one of the most famous heroes in the world.

You chatted with Ned while you waited for your interviewee to arrive.

“Have you met him before?” you asked.

“Once or twice,” Ned shrugged.

“What’s he like?”

“He’s cool.”

You cocked your brow. “ _Cool_?”

“He’s friendly,” Ned added.

You settled into your chair and glanced at your watch. When the hands read six, you heard the soft thump of light feet on the rooftop. You looked up.

There he was.

He was smaller than you expected. Younger, too, maybe. You leaped from your chair and stuck your hand out. “It’s an honor, Spider-Man.”

He shook your hand before sitting in the chair opposite you. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Y/L/N.”

You gasped at the sound of your name leaving Spider-Man’s mouth, a blush creeping up to your cheeks, embarrassed at the pre-teen-ness of it all. You cleared your throat in an attempt to re-embody the adult you were. “Thank you again for doing this, Spider-Man, but may I ask you… Why now?”

Spider-Man straightened his back and planted his palm on his knee. His stance resembled a pose you remembered Captain America making in a video you had been forced to watch in high school.

“When Peter told me about the piece you’re writing, I thought, ‘What a great opportunity to get the facts out there,’ you know?”

His voice sounded familiar, but you couldn’t quite place it.

“Tell me, Spider-Man, should we expect an unmasking a la Tony Stark this evening?”

You heard him gulp before laughing lightly. He was nervous. “Afraid not, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Maybe another time?”

“Maybe.”

The interview went better than you ever could have anticipated. Spider-Man was incredibly open with you. His answers were thorough, thoughtful, and eloquently put. He answered every question you asked and didn’t skirt around any of them. Well, except for the one about his identity, but you had expected that.

Throughout the entire interview, you could not stop thinking about how overwhelmingly grateful you were for Peter’s help. Without him, none of this would have happened. You couldn’t wait to tell him all about it on your date that evening.

“Thank you so much for speaking with me,” you said as you stood to shake Spider-Man’s hand again. You set your notebook down on a ledge before clasping his palm in yours.

“I’m glad I could help,” Spider-Man said.

_Where did you know that voice from?_

The masked hero helped you and Ned pack up the camera equipment. As the two of you pushed through the door to the stairwell, you threw another ‘thank you’ over your shoulder.

“I look forward to reading the story!” Spider-Man hollered, giving a thumbs-up as the door swung shut.

You were giddy, high on the possibility of what was next. “Oh, shit, my notebook,” you mumbled, feeling around your pockets. “I must’ve left it on the roof. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” Ned shouted frantically. “Why don’t I get it for you?”

“I’ll be two seconds, I promise,” you said as you burst through the door.

Spider-Man was standing there with his mask off and back toward you, speaking excitedly into his phone.

“I think it went really well, May. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. Okay… Yeah… Yep… Alright. Love you, too. Bye.”

Even with his back turned, you would have recognized that mop of brown hair anywhere.

“Peter?” you whispered.

The unmasked hero whipped around to face you. “Y/N—”

“You’re Spider-Man?”

Peter rushed toward you. “What? No, I’m not Spider-Man.”

“Peter!” you screamed, gesturing to the suit.

“Okay, yes, I’m Spider-Man,” Peter admitted. Your brain was racing, moving so wildly you couldn’t process a single rambling streaming out of Peter’s mouth. “Please, Y/N, you can’t… Please, don’t—”

“So, you were using me?” you snapped, finally able to compose a coherent thought again.

“No, of course not.”

The rage bubbled in your chest faster than you could register it. “You’re the one who gave me all the information on Spider-Man—on _you_. I mean, god, Peter, you basically wrote my questions for me. What am I to you? A mouthpiece for your bullshit propaganda?”

“No, never! Everything I told you was the truth!”

“How do you expect me to believe you?” The betrayal in your voice tasted like copper in your mouth.

Peter didn’t respond.

You sighed and felt a tear well in the corner of your eye. You sniffled and said, “You know what I have to do now, don’t you, Peter?”

Peter’s eyes widened like a deer’s in headlights. He held his palms up defensively. “No, Y/N, you can’t, please.” Your heart sank as you stared into his puppy-dog eyes. “Look, I’m just a kid from Queens, but Spider-Man… He’s a hero. If people find out, it’s not me that’s ruined, it’s him. Spider-Man will be gone forever. You know that.”

You knew telling people the truth would change everything. But could you keep this secret from the people? The public deserves to know the truth, don’t they?

“Peter,” you said so quietly even you could barely hear it.

Peter closed the distance between you and gripped your upper arms. “You can’t do it, Y/N. You can’t tell.”

“You can’t tell me to lie for you, Peter,” you shouted, wriggling out of his grasp. “How am I supposed to believe anything you said to me?”

Peter turned away from you, cursed under his breath, and punched the brick wall by the door to the stairwell. He whined and cradled his injured hand, “Ow.”

You rushed toward him on instinct but stopped when you realized you didn’t want to help him. Or, did you? You had never been so confused in your life. Never in your wildest dreams did you expect _Peter Parker_ to be Spider-Man.

You collapsed onto the ledge where you had left your notebook. You balanced your forehead in your hands and wept.

Peter dashed to your side, sat next to you, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

“I’m so confused,” you stuttered between sobs. “I don’t know what to do.”

Peter removed his arm and toyed with his mask in his fingers, his head dipped low. “If you have to reveal my true identity, I understand. It was going to come out eventually. At least it’ll be you telling everyone.”

You looked over at him and wiped your eyes with the cuffs of your sleeves. Peter met your quizzical gaze and explained, “I trust you. I know you’ll tell the truth, and I know you’ll do what’s right.”

Peter pushed himself up, tugged his mask back over his head, and said, “It always was going to end like this. I’m just glad I was able to do some good while I could.”

And then, he was gone.

You didn’t go home that evening. You spent the entire night staring at the blinking type cursor on your computer screen.

Less than three days ago, you knew exactly what this story was supposed to be. But now? You had no idea where it was supposed to go from here. After exhaustively reviewing and analyzing everything that had happened between you and Peter these last few days, you knew what to do.

From that moment, the words flowed effortlessly from your fingertips.

An orange sunbeam peeked over the top wall of your cubicle as you typed your final word. You stared at your screen—hundreds of words written, one story told: the right story.

You ran the piece through the printer, nearly tore the sheets out of the machine, and climbed to the roof, hoping to find the person you were looking for.

He was exactly where you thought he would be, sitting lazily on the ledge. With his body hunched over and his head in his hand, it looked like Peter hadn’t slept at all either.

You clutched the pages close to your chest, still warm from the printer, and called out, “Peter?”

Peter snapped his head up at the sound of his name and hopped up when he realized it was you. “Y/N,” he breathed.

“Here.” You shoved the pages into his hands.

“Is this…?”

“Yep.”

Peter began to read. You sat beside him as he carefully scanned each Arial, ten-point font line on all three pages. You watched his wide eyes dart back and forth, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he focused.

He straightened up when he reached the final line of the article: his quote.

“Because when you can do the things I can and you don’t do anything, that’s when you become the bad guy.” Peter lifted his head and locked eyes with you. He sighed in relief. “You didn’t tell. Why not?”

You gripped Peter’s hands, making sure his gaze remained on yours, and started, “Because this city needs a hero more than it needs to know who that hero is. When you put on that mask, you’re more than Spider-Man. You’re an idea. You are hope. You’re something people can believe in, and we don’t have much of that these days. If I were to tell, I would be single-handedly destroying the one thing that holds this city together—the hope you give it. Sometimes knowing the truth isn’t what’s best. Sometimes, what matters more is preserving the good that we have, and you are that good.”

You sat there with Peter in silence and watched the sun rise over the skyscrapers. You couldn’t remember the city ever looking this beautiful before.


End file.
